


Speech is Silvern

by starcrossedgirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Light BDSM, M/M, Plot What Plot, Silence Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:44:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starcrossedgirl/pseuds/starcrossedgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For keyairreem's prompt: golden/smother/table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speech is Silvern

**Author's Note:**

> This one's pretty much non-canon compliant with Book 6 & 7.

Harry doesn’t know how he always ends up in situations like this. 

Fine, that’s a lie -- he knows; he knows only too well. It’s his utter inability to back down from a challenge like any sane person would. Most of the time, he doesn’t overthink it too much; after all, courage is a Gryffindor trait. Sometimes, though -- times like this -- he’s convinced it isn’t courage so much as sheer, utter lunacy. 

“Tonight’s lesson is that silence is golden,” Snape had said, length of silk sliding over his hands. “Would you prefer to be gagged, or would you rather do without?”

There’s always a lesson, with Snape. Harry should probably resent it, but he can’t bring himself to. It would be so easy to blame Snape: after all, Snape stripped him of his clothes, tonight; Snape pushed him onto his back on the table; Snape used the defunct gag to tie his arms down, instead. 

It was Harry, though, who walked down the stairs to Snape’s office, Harry who -- predictably, foolishly -- said, “Without”, who shivered when Snape’s lip curled in response. It was Harry who kicked off his shoes (Snape never kneels), Harry who leant into the wood, who lifted his arms. 

Snape didn’t make him do any of those things. No, the truth is quite simple: Snape merely offers and Harry leaps right ahead. 

The silk encircles his wrists, deceptively soft. Harry knows he need only say the word and it will vanish, but he welcomes its strength, welcomes how it holds firm to his tugs, as he writhes. Without it, temptation would overwhelm him; he’d smother his cries with his hand, his fingers, his palm, and that... well, that’s not true silence, at all. 

Funny, how cheating is out of the question, here.

It’s getting harder, though. More and more, he’s biting his lip to stifle the sounds which long to break free, which fill his throat tight to bursting. He can’t tell how long he has fought to remain silent -- minutes, perhaps, hours or years. When he’s with Snape, time always contracts, splits down the middle, expands: each moment too slow, all moments combined far too fast, never enough. 

Snape’s barely touched him -- at least nowhere to warrant the mad rush of his pulse, but that much is par for the course. Normally, Harry would be begging by now, a litany of half-broken vowels and sounds, _please_ , _touch me_ , _fuck me_ , _oh God_. Without words, his body does all the talking. Snape’s fingers trip down his sternum and Harry arches his spine until he fears it is breaking; his hips chase the blunt scrape of nails; his legs part to the tickle of hair. 

If this goes where he thinks it is heading, he might just die. 

It doesn’t, however. He breathes and breathes and breathes through Snape’s tongue trailing the v of his thigh, breathes so hard he misses the signs. Then Snape thrusts two fingers inside him, curls them and twists them and lifts them with unerring precision, and Harry can’t help it; the whimper flows from his throat like the moon pulls the tide. 

The fingers leave him, immediately. A heartbeat, and Snape’s hand covers his mouth, pressing down.

“Shh,” Snape says. “You were doing so well.”

Funny, how ready he is to give praise, when they are here. 

Harry pants into the weight of Snape’s palm, hot-damp exhales, tastes the salt of his skin echoed within each inhale. He smells the sharp tang of lube on Snape’s fingers as they curl round his jaw, seeks his eyes, holds them and clings as he clings to the silk stretched taut under his thumbs. 

“Just a little while longer.”

A little while might well be forever, but it’s easier, with Snape staring at him, to nod, to give in. This time, at least, he knows what will happen, when the fingers retreat, slide smooth into him, once more. His whole body jerks, but there’s only Snape’s eyes going dark, Snape’s lips parting slightly, the faint flicker of Snape’s tongue tracing their line. There’s only the thunder of Harry’s own breaths, resounding too loud in silence, the rhythmic creak of the desk while Snape fucks him and fucks him and fucks him, and yet never fucks him at all. 

A little while is an eternity, until it is not. The silk slithers away with the fingers, leaving Harry bereft, and then time moves too fast, all of a sudden, in blurred snatches of motion: Snape’s hands at his robes and on Harry’s hips, hauling him close; one swift, killing thrust which slices him open. 

Harry would sob, if he could. He lifts up, instead, on arms that are shaking; Snape slams him back down. He holds Harry firm, right over his heart, pressing him flat to the desk and for a moment, it seems too much. Harry scrabbles for purchase, nails finding and losing the grain of the wood, slippery from his own sweat; Snape’s hand feels cold, unforgiving. Harry grabs for it, intending to push it away, but Snape’s skin is not cold but blood-warm. Snape’s pulse races the pace of his thrusts and Harry follows it up, wraps his hands round Snape’s arm, and then, it is an anchor. It is an anchor just like Snape’s gaze, which never leaves him; together, they keep him steady, let him sink into the sway as Snape fills him again and again and again. Together, they siphon the sounds from his chest, each moan, each whimper, each cry, so he gives himself over until there’s only the pleasure, the bright knife of Snape’s cock inside him, the voracious heat of Snape’s eyes. Of course, it can’t last; before long and he’s trembling, clamping down on Snape’s arm. Snape wrenches him up and then he’s kissing Harry, surging against him as they tremble together, as everything turns white-hot and slow. 

For a moment, they’re perfectly still, breathing each other. For a moment, Harry thinks he might cry, but to his surprise it’s not tears that burst free but laughter, peal after peal. He can’t seem to control it as it rattles right through him, drowns him in waves until he is shaking and trembling anew. For a moment, he’s terrified by it, overcome, convinced that he’s losing his mind. But Snape lifts him off the edge of the desk, guiding him down to the floor; Snape wraps around him, sinuous like twine, and it’s okay, then. Harry can smother his laughter in the rough wool of Snape’s robes while Snape’s fingers stroke through his hair and soothe down his spine, while Snape murmurs words which mean nothing, until Harry finds his way back to calm. 

Perhaps he’s crazy to thrill-seek like this, but the truth is quite simple: Harry jumps, knowing Snape -- Snape will catch him. 

Every time.


End file.
